Bass of Cakes
by MintyPlant
Summary: Murderface decides to take up a new hobby.


**Note:** I, uh ... I just don't ... have any explanation for where this came from. It was supposed to be a quick drabble of Murderface bowling alone, and ... I don't even know, you guys. I don't even know. The good news is I'm sorry?

**Standard disclaimer:** Characters belong to Small and Blacha, and I'm sorry to them, too.

* * *

Murderface was traipsing through the halls of Mordhaus, bored out of his skull.

After their vacation in Syria, then running away, and then their latest concert, he'd been the only one who wanted to go out, and he'd been overruled. Sure, he could go alone, but going to a strip club alone wasn't any fun.

But no, Nathan and Skwisgaar had brought in some groupies as soon as they got home, Pickles was so high he couldn't even speak coherently, and Toki wasn't in his room.

He was probably hugging Offdensen some more, Murderface thought. Gay. He ignored the thread of jealousy; that was gay, too. He'd only been hanging out with Toki so much because he felt sorry for the kid anyway, right?

He was tired of watching Civil War documentaries and playing video games. Maybe he'd go bowling. That wasn't much fun alone either, but it was better than nothing.

There was a light on in the kitchen, and Murderface made a detour. Maybe a little snack would help him think of something to do.

He heard the off-key French singing before he saw Jean-Pierre. The mutilated chef was humming as he chopped something at one of the pristine counters, mixing bowls arranged around him.

Jean-Pierre glanced toward the door as it closed, then smiled a hideous, toothy grin when he saw who it was.

The bassist glared back. No one ever looked that happy to see him, and he didn't trust it. "I'm jusht getting a shnack, OK? Then I'll be out of your way," he said.

Jean-Pierre just grinned even wider. "Can I make you something, my lord?"

The chef's enthusiasm was hard to resist, and Murderface found himself relaxing a little. "I want a burrito," he said, but he eyed Jean-Pierre's counter. "What'sh that?"

The chef drew himself up proudly. At least, Murderface thought it was proudly. "I am chopping nuts for the cupcakes!"

"Cupcakesh are for girlsh," Murderface said, and almost went to the fridge for a beer, but Jean-Pierre's grin faded a little bit, and he looked disappointed. And that was a pretty cool knife. "... Can I chop shome nutsh?"

The chef perked back up, and demonstrated how to chop the nuts without sending them flying around the kitchen, then started adding ingredients to his mixing bowls. After a moment, Murderface's curiosity got the better of him.

"What'sh that?"

"Sucre."

"What about that?"

"Cocoa."

Jean-Pierre began explaining each step, his enthusiasm almost drawing a smile from the bassist now and then, and once the nuts were chopped, he set Murderface to stirring various bowls and then pouring the mixture into a pan lined with paper cups. The pan went into an oven.

"Now what?" There was nothing left to stir. Jean-Pierre had made the frosting, and was transferring it to a bag.

"Now we wait!" Murderface's face fell, even though he knew caring about anything, but especially cupcakes, was seriously not metal. Jean-Pierre gave him another of those horrifying grins. "But you can lick the spoons!"

"I can?" He cleared his throat. "I mean, yeah, of courshe I can."

Once Jean-Pierre put the frosting away to cool, he thrust one of the batter-covered spoons at the chef, who tried to protest, but finally gave in. He politely turned away so Murderface couldn't watch him eat.

They left the bowls and utensils in one of the industrial sinks, then the chef pulled out the cupcakes and even showed Murderface how to frost a few of them. And he never hit him with a spoon once.

He was yawning when they finally finished, and Jean-Pierre made him a plate with his forgotten burrito and a few of the little cakes.

"Hey, Jean-Pierre?" he asked.

"Oui, my lord?"

Murderface rubbed at the back of his neck and looked at the dirty dishes in the sink, frowning. "Do you think maybe we could make cupcakesh again shome time?"

Jean-Pierre held up a mangled finger. "My lord, would you like cooking lessons?"

"Cooking'sh for women," Murderface said, then belatedly, "no offenshe."

Jean-Pierre didn't look particularly offended, although he might have been. It was hard to tell. "The greatest chefs in the world are all men, my lord."

Murderface scratched at a scar on his arm as he thought about that. It was true, all the chefs Dethklok had had before Jean-Pierre had been men. And most of the Klokateers who assisted in the kitchen were men, and Klokateers could be pretty badass.

"... Yesh," he said finally.

"Come back tomorrow night," Jean-Pierre said.

Murderface nodded gruffly and headed back to his room, the plate clutched to his chest.

The next day, Murderface went to the library before he could run into one of his bandmates. If he got there early and stashed himself in a corner, then even if Nathan or one of the others went looking for something to read, they wouldn't have to know he was there.

He couldn't be caught, that was the important thing. If the rest of Dethklok caught him looking at a book called "Hello, Cupcake!" he'd never, ever, ever live it down. Ever.

He had no idea why it was even in their library, he thought as he found the sequel, then grabbed a book of World War II pin-up girls. (That way, if he did get caught, he could at least claim he'd picked up the baking books by accident, right?)

His worries were forgotten as he found a chair in a back corner and began flipping through pages of desserts.

There wasn't a single brutal cupcake in either book. They were all puppies and flowers and other totally girly shit his grandmother would have made, if she had cared enough to cook anything but meatloaf.

The best ones looked like chicken drumsticks, but the bone decoration looked enough like a cock that Murderface finally closed tossed the books aside in disgust. He'd wanted to have ideas when he went to the kitchen tonight.

He turned to the Internet.

Jean-Pierre was excited. It had been years since Toki had come to him for cooking lessons, and the Norwegian's creativity and enthusiasm in the kitchen had been beyond the chef's teaching skills. And the Food Networks. And even the children's cookbooks the Mordhaus librarian had been kind enough to order.

After trying to alter too many dishes, adding ingredients that made them far too complex for the average palate (and, to Jean-Pierre's shame, even his own well-trained one), Toki had given up.

This might be a chance to make up for his previous failure, the chef thought.

Lord Murderface had wanted to make cupcakes again. They were not a dessert Jean-Pierre would have chosen to make two nights in a row, but they were a good place to start, and if it would please Lord Murderface ...

By the time the dishes from supper were cleaned and he'd shooed his assistants away, he began to fear that Lord Murderface had forgotten. He shouldn't have worried, though. The door to the kitchen opened and the bassist entered, a stack of printouts clutched in one hand.

Jean-Pierre cocked his head.

"I shaw in a book you can make cupcakesh into shtuff, like ducksh and shpaghetti. Can you make carsh, too?"

Jean-Pierre limped over to study the printouts. They were pictures downloaded from the Internet, of a car emblazoned with a large three and a logo for Goodwrench. "Ah, you like the auto racing?" he asked.

"Yeah. You know NASHCAR?" The bassist looked a little surprised.

Jean-Pierre began to gather what they would need. "I have watched a time or two. It is tres exciting," he said.

"I didn't think the Frensch liked that kind of thing," Lord Murderface said, spreading the printouts on one section of the counter and examining the ingredients Jean-Pierre had laid out.

"Auto racing was invented in Paris, my lord." Of course, Jean-Pierre hadn't had time to watch many races since he entered Le Cordon Bleu so many years ago.

"Huh."

Jean-Pierre studied the pictures once more. "I do not think we can make the cupcakes of this tonight. I would need to specially order the pan. But we can make a larger cake, my lord."

Lord Murderface nodded, and they set to making the dessert. Jean-Pierre set him to work, showing him how to measure and mix the ingredients. It took a few hours to bake, chill, carve and frost the cake, but in the end, it looked almost as good as the real car in the pictures.

"This is very good for your second time, my lord," the chef said.

Lord Murderface examined the cake. "The writing's all messhed up, though. I can't do anything right. I should jusht give up."

Jean-Pierre managed to frown, although it was no longer an expression that came to his face naturally. "My lord, if you had seen my first cake, you would not say that."

It had been a mess, the top rippled, the frosting uneven. Of course, he'd had the excuses of not having the proper equipment or anyone to teach him, and it had still been quite edible, but Lord Murderface didn't need to hear that right now.

He examined the cake for another moment, then shrugged. "I guessh it'sh not that bad," he said.

"Your next will be even better," Jean-Pierre promised, and that caused a smile to tug at the corner of Lord Murderface's mouth.

And the next was better: They spent one lesson making hard sugar Civil War soldiers, and the one after that making a sheet cake version of the Bull Run battlefield to place them on. Then they made pastries that looked like severed limbs, with strawberry jelly fillings, and then a whole night making sugar skulls.

Murderface knew it was too good to last.

He was in the hot tub a month after his first lesson, watching a re-run of "Ace of Cakes" when Nathan and Pickles wandered in, bickering about something. He ignored them until Pickles started flipping through the channels.

"Hey, I wash watching that!" The water splashed as he stood up.

"Dude, first, sit back down. No one wants to see that," Pickles said, shielding his eyes. "An' second, that show's totally gay."

He sat back down, glaring. "No, it'sh not! They were going to put cockroachesh on that cake. Cockroachesh!"

Nathan turned the channel back, but instead of showing the decorative roaches the bakers on the show had been making, one of them was talking about how much he loved the musical "Hairspray." Nathan and Pickles both lost it, and a hot rush told Murderface he was blushing.

"Jusht give it a shecond," he muttered. "That cake wash totally brutal."

"Cakes aren't brutal, Murderface," Nathan said once he caught his breath.

"It wash!"

The cake came back on the screen. It now included a can of hairspray, and parts of it were pink. Murderface grabbed a towel and stomped out of the room as Nathan and Pickles howled with laughter.

The laughter stuck in his head. He liked making desserts — and liked eating them almost as much — but maybe Nathan and Pickles were right. Sure, Jean-Pierre had said that most chefs were men, but of course he would say that. He was a chef.

What did Jean-Pierre know, anyway? He was French, and he'd been torn apart by a helicopter.

Murderface decided he needed a shower. He just felt all chloriney, he told himself, from the hot tub.

Later that night, though, he skipped his lesson with Jean-Pierre, got drunk, and then lay in his bed, wondering if his new hobby was worth the world thinking he was gay, and trying not to wonder if it meant he was.

In the end, he fell asleep, and had drunken dreams of suffocating in pink cake batter while his grandmother attacked him with her spoon.

Lord Murderface proved to be quite the talented baker. The speed and efficiency with which he decorated his creations occasionally left them looking like Impressionist visions rather than the brutal designs he downloaded from the Internet, but Jean-Pierre thought they were charming, and told him so.

There were some snags, like when Lord Murderface wanted to use his own knife —

_"My lord, we use the kitchen knives for cooking, so that the food doesn't, ah, ruin your special knife."_

_"Ruin it? Like shcratch it or shomething?"_

_"Oui, exactly."_

_"But I want my own knife!"_

_"Then you shall have your own set, my lord."_

— or when Jean-Pierre had to convince him that he should go to the bathroom down the hall instead of relieving himself in a corner, and that he should wash his hands afterward —

_"There'sh nothing even in that corner!"_

_"My lord, the smell will get into the crusts, and then the pie will taste of feces."_

_"Sho? ... That'sh kind of grossh. Fine."_

— but once they'd tackled basic kitchen hygeine and safety, Lord Murderface caught on quickly. The lessons went from once a week, to twice and the occasional third night before the first month was out.

And, if Jean-Pierre admitted it, he was beginning to grow even more attached to Lord Murderface than the rest of Dethklok, not that he wouldn't do anything for all of them.

Part of it was having a talented, eager mind to mold. Most of his assistants already knew how to cook when they entered his kitchen, and many of them were not interested in anything beyond the meals the band requested, or in spending any more than the required time with the maimed chef. Lord Murderface, for all his claims to the contrary, obviously loved to create desserts, and he was a blank slate, with no bad cooking habits to break. And he seemed to have no problem with Jean-Pierre's appearance.

But mostly, it was because it was so difficult to make the bassist smile. At first, the chef had simply wanted to please him, as a member of his beloved Dethklok, but a genuine smile changed Murderface from intimidating and homely — Jean-Pierre, for all that he could not see Dethklok's faults, had to admit it — to ... well, he couldn't describe it, but it still warmed his heart. Or whatever organ was now where his heart used to be.

Whatever his reasons, though, the dessert nights with Lord Murderface had become the highlights of his week.

Which is why he ended up in Monsieur Charles Offdensen's office, distraught, when his student stopped coming.

"I don't know what I have done to offend Lord Murderface," Jean-Pierre said anxiously, when he finally got ahold of himself enough to remember his English. "Am I to be fired, sir?"

M. Offdensen seemed surprised by the question. "None of the boys have come to me with any problems. They all still seem to love your meals."

That was reassuring. Jean-Pierre nodded.

"Why would you be worried about William in particular, though?" M. Offdensen asked, a little pointedly. "Was he causing problems in the kitchen?"

"No, sir, nothing like that! It's just that he has stopped coming to his cooking lessons," Jean-Pierre said.

M. Offdensen stared. Jean-Pierre stared back.

"Murderface has, uh, been taking cooking lessons," he finally said. "I see."

"We were going to make mousse," Jean-Pierre said mournfully. "With raspberry sauce to look like blood."

M. Offdensen stared again, then seemed to shake himself. "I'm sure there's a good explanation. Why don't I talk to William for you?"

Jean-Pierre felt a stirring of hope. Surely it was just a misunderstanding. "Merci!"

As he hurried back to his kitchen, Jean-Pierre made a mental note to set aside some of the mousse for M. Offdensen.

Murderface was beating Toki at Mortal Kombat when the robot found them. "Murderface? We need to talk," he said.

"I'm trying to conshentrate!" he snarled, as Sonya Blade kicked Kabal across his screen. "Shtop cheating, Toki!"

"I ain'ts cheating, Williams!" Sonya delivered a finishing move. "Ha! Takes that!"

Offdensen cleared his throat. "Murderface, I, uh, need to see you in my office when you have a minute."

"Why should I? You jusht made me loshe! Again!" Murderface threw his DS on the ground, and it broke. "Oh great, now you made me break it!"

"You leaves him alones, Moiderface, you breaks it yourself!" Murderface turned his glare on Toki, and the rhythm guitarist made a fist.

"Boys, please." There was a moment of tension, and then the two of them looked at Offdensen. "I need to speak to you in my office, William. It's very important. Something none of the others can help me with."

Murderface couldn't keep the suspicion out of his expression. "Really? Thish better not be shome kind of trick."

Offdensen held up both hands. "No trick."

"That's not fairs!" Toki yelled. "Whys I always gots to be excluded?"

"Toki, your new model plane came in the mail today. I had it delivered to your room," Offdensen said.

Toki perked up at that. "We finish playing laters, right?" he said, barely glancing at Murderface as he left the room. The kid had the attention span of a gnat sometimes.

Murderface sulked all the way to the robot's office.

Once they were inside and the door locked behind them, Offdensen sat behind his desk and said, "It's come to my attention that you've been taking cooking classes with Jean-Pierre."

"I knew thish wash a trick!" Murderface stood back up.

"He said you were doing very well, especially with baking."

Murderface crossed his arms over his chest. "Baking," he said, "ish gay."

Offdensen just raised an eyebrow. "Is that what you really think? Or are you just saying that because the others said so?"

Murderface glared at a point above Offdensen's shoulder and said nothing. Usually, when he did that, whoever he was arguing with would just give up and walk away.

Offdensen didn't seem perturbed, though, confirming his bionic status once again. "I'm sure the others don't mean it, Murderface. You all make fun of each other constantly. And even if they do, just keep in mind that that kind of humor is immature. It's nothing you need to worry about it."

Murderface turned that over in his mind. It made some sense, but he'd been thinking about it for two weeks. "Yeah, but they had a point. Pashtriesh are kind of ... you know, feminine."

"If you really have a problem with desserts, William, then why don't you try, uh, something else? Like flambe?"

"What'sh a flambe?" he asked.

"Well, you add alcohol to a recipe and it catches fire." Offdensen's explanation slowed a bit at the end, as though he were realizing that maybe sharing this knowledge wasn't the best idea.

Murderface barely noticed, though. He was staring at Offdensen, his mouth open. "You can do that!"

"Yes, you can. Just be careful. Don't do it without Jean-Pierre to help."

"I can't do that shpecial thing you wanted me to do, ro- uh, Charles. I have a cooking classh," Murderface said, and he hurried from the room.

When Murderface slunk to the kitchen to apologize to Jean-Pierre, no one was there. He knew he could hit the button that would summon the chef, but it was late and, really, he was a little ashamed of himself for abandoning the kitchen for something as stupid as a little teasing.

So he wrote a note instead.

_jp,_

_sory for missing moos nite and the other nites. charls said u coud teech me to flombay. stil pals?_

_- william_

When Jean-Pierre entered the kitchen at five a.m. to prepare Dethklok's breakfast — even though none of them except perhaps Toki would be awake before noon — he found the note, stuck to one of his better cutting boards with one of his better knives. His scowl was more horrible than his smile, but the latter replaced the former when he finally deciphered the message.

When Murderface's pancakes were delivered to him for breakfast, the bacon and eggs were arranged on the pancakes to make a smiling face. He smiled down at the plate, then quickly shoved the eggs to the side as Skwisgaar came into the room, so the lead guitarist wouldn't see.

And Offdensen was surprised with a delivery of freshly baked biscotti to go with his morning coffee.

They were on the way back from a concert in Paris, when the others finally found out Murderface was learning to cook. He'd sent a Gear out to buy "shome food you can only get in Francshe, cheeshe or shomething," and the others were nagging him to share the resulting camembert.

When he'd refused, Pickles smirked. "Why, is it for your girlfriend?"

Murderface probably wouldn't have answered truthfully if he hadn't been distracted, trying to make out some of the writing on the cheese's packaging. "No, it'sh for Jean-Pierre."

There was dead silence, and then Nathan snickered.

"Why woulds he buys cheese for our chefs?" Skwisgaar asked, not bothering to look up from his guitar. How he could still want to play when they'd just gotten off-stage, Murderface would never understand.

"Oh, 'cause he ams taking cooking lessons! Right? I guesses it!" Toki said helpfully. "That's nice to buys him the cheese, Moiderface."

Nathan stopped snickering to stare at Murderface. "You're taking cooking lessons?"

"Yesh, I am," he said, as if it didn't matter.

"Dude, how many Klokateers have you poisoned?" Pickles asked, setting off a round of laughter.

"Fuck you, Picklesh!" He hadn't poisoned any of them. Offdensen didn't let Jean-Pierre keep any deadly substances in the kitchen anymore, after that mercury cake. Murderface had asked.

"So are you an' Jean-Pierre, like, datin' or somethin'?" the drummer asked.

"We're jusht friendsh! Jusht becaushe none of you assholes have friendsh doeshn't mean I can't!"

"He's not even your friend, Murderface," Nathan said. "He's our chef and your cooking teacher. Friends, like, hang out and stuff."

"We hang out! We've been watching my 'Shockwave' DVDsh," Murderface said. "Exshept the helicopter one." He lifted his chin triumphantly.

His bandmates all looked at him, except Toki, who sulkily muttered something about having the coolest friend of all of them. Slowly, he caught on to what they were all thinking.

"You know what? Fuck you guysh! I wash gonna make dinner for all of you, but you don't desherve it!"

"Oh, this I gotta see," Pickles said.

"Yeah, Murderface, we want to see you cook," Nathan said.

"Too bad. You had your chanshe, and you losht it," he said. The truth was, he'd had absolutely no intention of making them dinner. He'd blurted it out in anger. And he wasn't sure he really wanted to, if they were just going to make fun of his cooking.

"Pfft, he probably can'ts even cooks nothing for the dinners meal," Skwisgaar said. "He cans just makes the little cakes and sandwiches likes a lady."

Murderface narrowed his eyes at that. "Fine," he said. "I'll make dinner. It'll be the mosht metal dinner ever. You'll all shee!"

And he spent the rest of the trip writing ideas on an old napkin and occasionally glaring at the others. He'd show them.

Jean-Pierre was surprised when Lord Murderface appeared in his kitchen early the next morning, long before any of the band normally woke up, with a wrapped package of cheese and a crumpled napkin in hand.

"The guysh found out, and I shaid I'd cook dinner for them! You gotta help me!" He looked panicked.

"Of course, my lord," Jean-Pierre said. "We will make a fine supper-"

"No, I gotta do it myself! I mean, the cooking part. Sho they can't jusht shay you did it all. But-"

Jean-Pierre sat him in a corner, poured some whiskey into a mug of coffee and handed it to him. "Don't worry, my lord. It will be fine."

Lord Murderface sipped at the mug, and after a few minutes he calmed down. "Yeah, it'll be fine. We can do thish. It hash to be shomething really cool, though."

Jean-Pierre took a moment to start his assistants on the day's chores, then returned to Lord Murderface with a file of recipes. After studying the poorly spelled list of ideas on his napkin, he said, "I know just the thing, my lord! Chicken en flambe would go well with the smashed potatoes."

Lord Murderface's face lit up at that. "Yeah, that'd be aweshome." They worked out the rest of the menu, Jean-Pierre occasionally taking a break to direct one of the cooks while Lord Murderface thumbed through the recipes.

"I will make sure that everything you need is here, my lord," Jean-Pierre said, when the list was finally settled.

"Thanksh, JP," Lord Murderface said gratefully.

When Murderface told them he'd be making dinner on Thursday, and it would be served at six o'clock, he knew the guys would make excuses to wander through the kitchen in the hours before. So he made sure to save the coolest things — like chopping the vegetables for one of the sides, using some knife tricks he got off of YouTube — for when they were being nosy.

Jean-Pierre helped him with a lot of the preparation, but even so, Murderface made most of the meal himself, and maybe the presentation wasn't as fancy as some of the meals the chef made for them, but it was pretty close.

And he'd snuck down and made a batch of cupcakes all alone the night before, waiting until he was sure Jean-Pierre had gone to bed.

His bandmates all seemed surprised both to see Murderface actually cooking, and that the food was edible. Or maybe Charles had talked to them — Murderface knew he did sometimes — and they were all behaving.

But none of them could hide their surprise when he placed the chicken on the table and lit it on fire.

"What the hell, dude?" Pickles yelled, and Skwisgaar and Nathan both jumped. Toki just stared at the fire.

"It'sh shupposhed to do that," Murderface told them, and served the main course when the alcohol burned off. The table was quiet as they ate, and Toki and Nathan took seconds of everything.

Finally, the meal was over, and everyone had eaten their fill.

"I hate to admit it, but that was pretty good," Nathan said.

"Ja, it was nots bad," Skwisgaar agreed.

"An' that thing ya did with the knives was pretty metal," Pickles said.

"You gots to shows me how to dos that, Williams!" Toki was practically bouncing in his chair.

"Uh, maybes that's not so goods an idea."

Toki stopped bouncing and glared at Skwisgaar. "I hates you."

"I told you guysh cooking wash brutal," Murderface said airily, stretching a bit. "And now, if you'll exshcushe me, JP and I are watching a movie."

The other four cracked up. "Dude, I thought you said you weren't gay," Pickles snorted.

Murderface scowled, then remembered what Offdensen had told him, and how he'd ended up making this meal in the first place, and took the high ground. "You guysh are sho immature." He began to leave the room.

"Hey, wait a minute," Nathan said as he reached the door. "Don't we get, like, dessert or something?"

"Hey, yeah!" Toki broke his pout. "What abouts all thems cupcakes?"

"Oh, they're not brutal enough for my palsh! I'm jusht going to throw them away," Murderface said. "Sherioushly, though, don't eat them." And with that, he went to meet Jean-Pierre.

The four remaining members of Dethklok looked at each other.

"You, uh. You think maybe those cupcakes are in the garbage yet?" Nathan trailed off, and he, Pickles and Toki shoved back their chairs and bolted for the kitchen. Skwisgaar strolled in a moment later.

Sure enough, there was a platter of cupcakes on the counter, two for each of them.

"You thinks maybes we shoulds leaves them be?" Skwisgaar asked, examining one. "He says they ams no good."

"Yeah, we shoulds leaves them," Toki agreed, but he was leaning closer and closer to the platter, his eyes fixed on the fluffy, pink frosting.

"Fuck that," Nathan said. "I'll eat yours."

"No!" Toki yelled, and grabbed a treat in each hand, starting a feeding frenzy. A few minutes later, every one of the cupcakes were gone, aside from a few traces of crumbs and frosting. Even Skwisgaar had eaten one.

Back in one of Mordhaus's private theaters, Murderface and Jean-Pierre settled down with a bowl of popcorn and some beers to watch "Ratatouille." They were close enough to the kitchen that, fifteen minutes into the movie, when the laxative frosting kicked in, they could hear Nathan scream, "MURDERFAAAAAAAACE!"

Jean-Pierre jumped, as if to rush and check on his beloved Dethklok, but Murderface flung an arm around him to keep him in his seat, too pleased with the success of his scheme to care what it looked like. Besides, it was just a bro hug, he told himself. Because they were bros.

"They'll be fine," he said, as Jean-Pierre settled into his seat, looking at Murderface in surprise. "I told them not to eat the cupcakesh."

And they watched the movie, both pretending not to notice that Murderface's arm was still draped across Jean-Pierre's shoulders.


End file.
